Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [42]
Warren’s response was an anguished cry, a combination of sob and fury. Portelain helped Johnson turn Warren over and she secured his wrists with the cuffs.
“Don’t hurt my hands,” he blubbered as they yanked him to his feet. Blood ran from his nose down over his mouth and chin and bloodied Mozart. They propelled him out of the alley, to where dozens of people watched.
“What did he do?” someone yelled.
“Who is he?”
Johnson and Portelain ignored the onlookers and pushed Warren down the street in the direction of their car.
Warren balked, and shouted, “Police brutality!”
A tall, heavyset man with a white beard and ponytail yelled to someone else in the crowd, “They beat the crap out of the guy
The detectives urged Warren forward. They turned the corner and were almost to the car when Portelain suddenly stopped.
“What’s the matter, Willie?” Johnson asked, her right hand gripping Warren’s cuffed wrist.
Portelain released his grasp of the manacles and sat heavily on a low stone wall. “Don’t feel good,” he rasped.
He’s having a heart attack, Johnson thought. “Wait here.” She pushed Warren to the car, where she opened a rear door and shoved him inside, facedown. She slammed the door shut and came around to the driver’s side, stopping only to glare at people who’d followed them. “Get away!” she commanded. With one eye on Warren, who struggled to right himself, she called Dispatch and asked for backup and an ambulance. Her request confirmed, she looked to where Portelain was still on the wall, head lowered, hands pressed against the top of the wall to support himself.
“I want a lawyer,” Warren said from the backseat. He now sat upright, his hands behind him. “I want somebody from the embassy. You can’t do this to me
“Shut up!” Johnson snapped. She was torn between staying with him and going to where Portelain sat.
She didn’t have to ponder that decision long because two squad cars and a city ambulance roared down the street, lights flashing, horns wailing, and came to a haphazard stop, blocking all traffic. Johnson grabbed the first uniformed officer she could and told him to watch Warren while she went to where two EMTs were talking with Portelain.
“You all right, Willie?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said. “Just got a pain, that’s all. Damned arthritis
Johnson took one of the EMTs aside and said, “Don’t listen to him. I think he’s having a coronary
“Why do you say that?” the EMT asked.
“Because—damn, just get him to a hospital
A few minutes later, Portelain, despite a series of vocal protests, was being slid on a gurney into the recesses of the ambulance. By now, the crowd had grown considerably and included a reporter from the Post and a TV crew. Johnson heard the female TV reporter ask no one in particular, “What happened here? What did you see?”
The big man with the white beard pushed his way to the front of the crowd and said, “This white guy was just minding his business when these two cops jump him and beat the living crap out of him
Someone else confirmed it.
The reporter spotted Johnson and started toward her. The detective waved her away and said to the uniformed cop standing guard over Warren, “Take him in and book him for resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. I’m going to the hospital with Willie.” She stopped the ambulance driver who was about to leave and said, “I’m his partner. I’m going with him.” She ran around to the rear, opened the door, and joined Portelain and the second EMT inside. “You’ll be okay, Willie,” she said, touching his hand. “You’ll be just fine
The crowd dispersed. The big man with the white beard insisted that an officer take down his name as a witness to police brutality.